


We Meet Again

by ghostlyscribbles



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: As are Paul and Patryk, Diners, Gen, Red Army is mentioned, Sort of Friendship, Vent Writing, feelings of worthlessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7861744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlyscribbles/pseuds/ghostlyscribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tord didn't need friends. He was fine on his own. Haha, who needs friends?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> This is vent writing. Please excuse any weirdness in the plot or characterization. Unbeta'd.

“I am a piece of shit. Is it any wonder why I’m treated like this? Because I am a piece of shit.”

A harsh whisper came from the alleyway in the middle of the night. Nobody was around, except for the few who were driving their cars past the small crack between the apartment buildings. Even if anyone walked by the alley, nobody would even bother to come and check on the figure sitting against one of the walls. He was sure of it.

After all, nobody gave two shits where he was. Or who he was. Or why he was there. His family - he hated them all and was grateful that they were many miles away in another country. His friends? Pfft, as if they really were his friends. He had no friends. His army? It could run on its own. What purpose did he serve, other than to send his men straight into death or jail?

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be anywhere. His head was aching, eyes watering and breathing shaky. He knew that he was being dumb. After all, a simple ‘no’ wasn’t the end of the world. So what if the only two people who still talked to him out of friendliness instead of duty were off doing their own thing. So what if they’d pretty much kicked him out?  
  
That relationship had been going downhill, anyway. Whenever he’d tried to get them to do something, not as a leader and his right hand men but as three friends, it seemed that they were always “too busy” or “we had plans somewhere else, sorry”. These things could only be said so many times before they started sounding more like excuses, rather than actual reasons.

But, the ‘no’ had snowballed. It went from “no, we don’t want to hang out with you, sir.” to a cascade of horrible thoughts. Most of them were self-blaming. Did he cause that? Were they just trying to avoid him? After all, you could only be busy for _so_ long, and his loneliness was starting to eat at him. From there, the thoughts branched out.

 _“They don’t like you because of what you did to your old friends.”_  
  
_“They don’t like you because you’re a violent man.”_  
  
_“They don’t like you because you’re a mangled pile of flesh.”_  
_  
“They don’t like you because you’re YOU.”_

These thoughts _were_ things that he’d thought before. Way back, right after he’d destroyed his old house and killed a man. At that point, he’d had something else to cover up the thoughts. He had some kind of ‘friend’. Now, though... well, would you call someone who was always bailing on you a friend?

He was alone. And he didn’t want to be. But he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he’d never find anyone to help him. Nobody wanted to be _friends_ with the Red Leader. After all, he was the man who was known for the statement, “Who needs friends?” The statement was so dumb, but he’d upheld it while in the public eye.

In private, he hated it. Hated everything about being alone. He wanted to talk to someone, to hang out with someone without having to worry about them being afraid of him. He wanted someone who wasn’t afraid to call him out on his bullshit, somebody to be there for him on the days when he was lonely. He was surrounded by many of his men, all of which he’d recruited pretty much personally, and yet none of them were _friends._ Merely comrades, ready to take his order.

And of course, there was the fact that if he was to try and get closer to any of his men, it might start the rumors of _favoritism,_ and he didn’t want his ragtag group to become any more unstable than it already was.

His attention was brought back to the present as his arm began throbbing in pain again. He’d broken his robotic arm, and the stump it was connected to had been hurting ever since. He remembered smashing it, breaking it into tiny pieces that now littered the ground around him. All that remained was a rough, skeletal-like bit of plastic, as the outer casing was the part that was broken. The skeletal plastic was snapped as well, though, so his arm was useless.  
  
Not that he’d use it anymore. He was tired. Tired of being the weird rebel leader that was so alone that it hurt. Tired of being everyone’s last choice. Tired of being told “sorry, something else came up.” and then being left alone on a day he’d purposely cleared so he’d be able to do something. He was ready to sit in this dark, disgusting alleyway for the remainder of his life, wasting away until, when someone finally came to look for him, all they’d find was some gaunt, sad kid, completely still where he sat curled up against the wall.

Death scared him, but he saw no other options. Nobody would truly miss him. Sure, Paul and Patryk would be saddened by his passing, but they were more likely to freak out about what was to become of the army. Hell, Tord knew of too many people who’d _celebrate_ his death, party like it was the end of the world because he’d vanished from the face of the earth.

He ignored how the thought stung.

In the dead of the night, it was impossible to miss the quiet sounds of shuffled footsteps. He didn’t know who they belonged to, and he curled up tighter in an effort to be overlooked. The person most likely was using the alley as a shortcut.

His hopes to be unseen were dashed as the person’s footsteps picked up speed and not long after, he was being picked up by the hood of his sweatshirt. While he was being choked, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead, he stared down at the ground, at the person’s shoes, and could just barely make out a checkered pattern even though he lacked a second eye.

“So I _was_ right.”  
  
Well. Looks like the world had one last _fuck you_ before he gave up and died. He didn’t get a chance to do anything other than realize who this person was before said person dropped him. His legs were weak, and he collapsed to the harsh pavement below. He kept his head down, wishing that the person would leave him alone.

There was silence, then. Relative silence, actually, since there was still a car or two that drove by. A moment passed where Tord believed that the man truly would turn on his heel and walk away. As that belief faded, he was left with a horrible feeling of curiosity and confusion. Why was this man hovering? He should’ve just continued walking.

The almost-quiet passed, and Tord was pulled up once again by a harsh tug on his remaining arm. He winced as the vicegrip the other man had on his arm registered in his mind, and tried yanking it back. It didn’t work, he’d been weakened by his own emotions already, and he was forced to stumble after the man as he began to walk.

This man eventually led the way to a twenty-four hour diner, one that had a sign on the door stating ‘no time travel’. Tord didn’t dwell on how that became a rule at this diner, instead focusing more on why the other man would drag him here. They grabbed a booth, and Tord was glad that there was only one or two other people in the diner, not counting the staff. He flipped his hood to cover his head, though.

The man across from him ordered them both drinks before crossing his arms. His dark, void-like eyes were set in an angry glare, and his hair looked pretty unkempt. Tord could see a blue shirt under his normal hoodie, and when the norwegian saw that he was also wearing sweatpants, it clicked that he was freshly out of bed. So he _hadn’t_ been out at a bar? Shocking.

Tord cleared his throat, though his gaze shifted to the salt and pepper shakers. “So, Tom.”  
  
“Commie.” Even though it was quiet, so as to not attract attention, the tone was practically dripping with venom and hatred. Tom leaned onto the table, allowing his fingers to drum against the surface. “Mind explaining to me why I was woken up at three in morning by a loud crashing in that alleyway? What, were you trying to climb up to my room and kill me in my sleep? Because there are fire escapes for that.”  
  
Tord blinked, a light flashing on in his head. He’d had no idea that Tom lived in one of the two apartment buildings that created the alleyway. Huh. What were the odds. He debated lying, saying, ‘yes, I was trying to do that thing you said’. Eventually he reached the conclusion that both of his explanations (the lie and the truth) were pretty embarrassing, so he stayed silent.

Tom picked up on his silence, but didn’t comment. He was being somewhat nice at the moment, and it bothered the norwegian. He was used to them being at each other’s throats. Something as simple as this wouldn’t make him calmer. Had he really changed that much in the time since Tord had seen him last?

The waitress set down the drinks, but both of the patrons denied wanting food. She shuffled away with the promise that she’d be back later in case they changed their mind.

“What happened to your arm?”  
  
Tord paused in sipping the cola that he’d been given, eye flicking down and to the right for a moment. He forced himself to smirk. “What do you mean?” There were several meanings to the question, after all. Why was it robotic, why it was broken, why he got it replaced...

“Did you break it while trying to climb the wall?” The eyeless man snickered, one hand wrapping around the glass of orange juice he had ordered.

“I wasn’t trying to climb the wall, Thomas. I just got angry and smashed it.” Tord admitted, sounding rather annoyed.

“Well, that was dumb.”  
  
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, witness. Shut up.” Despite the harshness of his words, Tord could feel his face heating up. He knew it was stupid, but even now, he still had that feeling of worthlessness. Maybe he wouldn’t even repair the damn thing. What would he need it for, if he had no real drive to do anything anymore?

There was a beat of silence, one in which Tord finished his cola. He was very thirsty, and hoped that the waitress would be back to refill his cup. Tom had yet to actually drink his juice. “... What were you angry about? It had to be something big for you to smash your arm.”

Tord sighed, leaning back into the worn cushion of the booth. “Why does it matter? It’s none of your concern.” He suddenly felt very tired, and wondered if it would be considered rude to fall asleep in the diner. Probably, but he didn’t really care all that much at this point. Maybe he’d stumble back to the alley- no, wait, he couldn’t deal with the close proximity to his old friends.

“I guess it isn’t.” Tom shrugged nonchalantly, head turning to look at the rest of the diner. “I’m just guessing, but that’s probably the sound I heard that woke me up. And it sounded very... violent. Which is weird for you, getting self-destructive when angry. I know that much.” Now, his tone was shifting to something a little more friendly, but also more blank.  
  
It made Tord shiver, and he stayed silent. His head turned towards the window beside them, watching the dark streets outside. There were no cars at this hour, and there were no pedestrians. Soon, his focus was turned to the reflections on the glass. He watched as the waitress came up and poured him another glass of cola, and said a thank you to her without turning his head.

The quiet between them was deafening. So much so that the norwegian could barely tell what was going on in the diner. He tried to ignore it, drifting off into his own self-blaming hatred again, before the eyeless man finally said something.

“It’s really good. To see you alive, I mean.”

That... was not what Tord was expecting. It was so surprising that he actually turned to look at the eyeless man instead of at the window. He seemed distant, distracted as his fingers continued to drum idly. “What?” The commie asked, well aware that he sounded dumb. But how could he not question that? From _Tom_ of all people? Ha, the world must’ve been playing a joke!

Tom sighed. “I thought that I’d killed you, with the harpoon.” He winced ever so slightly, and Tord stayed silent about it. “Edd and Matt were devastated. We never heard anything from the news about you being dead, but by the time we felt it was safe to go check the wreckage without getting arrested, you were gone. It was easy to assume that you’d died and the police weren’t saying anything. After all, you are a wanted criminal.”  
  
Did they ever stop to think that it was entirely possible that he’d survived and gotten away? Why would they be so quick to assume? Tord didn’t question it. He didn’t want to start an argument over something like this, even if it was dumb. Because everything was dumb, including himself, so why bother?

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed at you. I still hate you for killing Jon, and blowing up our house and almost killing _me._ But...” He took a deep breath, turning to stare down at the table. “It’s nice to know that you didn’t die. That’s a weight off my mind.”

“Good to know that you’re not a murderer?” Tord stated, tone not even close to as sharp as he meant it to be. If anything, it was as blank as Tom’s. He corrected it with his next statement. “Are you going to sleep better tonight knowing that my blood isn’t on your hands?”

Tom looked him straight in the eye- er, well... as best as they could since one only had one eye and the other had only voids. His voice was firm when he said, “No. I won’t.”

And once again, Tord was at a loss.

Tom ran a hand down his face, _finally_ deciding to take a sip of orange juice. The cup being set down on the table was like a gunshot due to how quiet it was in the diner. One of the other occupants had left, and the last one was reading a paper. The staff were all in the back room, but not much noise came out into the actual diner itself. “There’s still blood on my hands. It’s just a different kind.”  
  
“I don’t follow you, witness.” Tord said bluntly. He wanted to get this over with, tease Tom a little so he’d leave him alone and then go find a nice trashcan to curl up in.

“You killed our neighbor.” Tom pointed out, gaze drifting down to the table once more. “You blew up the house. You almost killed me. You hurt Matt and Edd, and you claimed that they were never your friends. And I paid you back, shooting you out of the sky and thinking for the past couple of months that you were dead.” Another sip of orange juice. “But I still feel like shit, seeing you now.”

Tord barked out a laugh. “What? You feel like _shit?_ Well, isn’t that the biggest joke of the century?” He continued to laugh, because it wasn’t believable. Tom and him were rivals. If anything, Tom should feel good that he’d been hurt so badly.

The next second, he was pulled into an awkward standing position. Tom had stood, grabbed the front of his hoodie and yanked him upwards, closer to his face. His voice was an angry growling hiss. “Yes, I feel like shit because I am an actual human being with emotions, unlike some people.” He pushed the norwegian back, making him stumble back onto the seat painfully.

Tord looked up at him, took in his dark look, and knew that his plan was working. However, he couldn’t stop himself from responding. “Oh, of course. I have no emotions. Robotic and careless. That’s why I got angry and smashed my arm.” He fixed his position, now, standing a little less awkwardly so he wasn’t taking the lower ground. Through the feeling of worthlessness, he caught a spark of fury, and he ran with it. “Or is that just an act, too? Because I must be a damn good actor, then. Hey, look, the arm isn’t really broken, it’s just a prop! My real arm is still there! See?!”

Tom growled in annoyance, and the two glared at each other before both stepped down at the same time. They sat back down, cushions releasing small puffs of air as they did so.

Tord felt sick. He wanted to leave, before he did something he regretted. Again. But he felt compelled to stay there, just as he’d felt stuck in the alley. Maybe he could waste away in this booth, if he kept paying the waitresses money to leave him alone.

“Did it hurt?”  
  
Tord rolled his eye, left arm moving to hug the right closer to his body. He was poked with some of the robotic skeleton, but it still worked to comfort him slightly. “What do you _think,_ Tom? That it felt like feathers tickling me? Floating on a cloud?”

There was another heavy, _heavy_ silence that fell between them. Tom slowly drank his orange juice, and Tord slowly relaxed. He took deep breaths, ignoring his own drink in favor of calming down enough to get the fuck out of the diner. He was done here. Screw his mind saying that he should stay.

“So, I take it that your life has been fucked ever since the whole ‘robot’ incident?” In a complete one-eighty, Tom’s voice was quiet, soft. Back to that distant blankness that he’d had before.

Tord tapped his fingers on the table, paying more attention to them than anything else in the room. He wasn’t even paying attention to what he was saying anymore. “Well, my arm’s gone. I am horribly scarred and will be for the rest of my life. My army is inefficient at best and we’re moving so slowly that world domination is probably decades away at this point. I have nobody close to me other than my two right hand men, who have grown tired of me... so yeah, I’d say it’s pretty fucked.”  
  
A small hum came from Tom as Tord realized what he’d just confessed, and his face heated up once more. “I thought you didn’t need friends?”

“Cut the crap, Tom.” Well, the cat was out of the bag now. Couldn’t put it back in. It would get angry and try to claw his face off. “Everyone needs friends. I said that I don’t, and now I admit that I’m wrong.”

“How very mature of you.” Tom set his empty glass down. “... I’m sure that if you ask Edd, he’ll forgive you. He was always the nicest one of us when it came to you.”  
  
What?  
  
“And Matt doesn’t really remember you well enough to make a judgement. He keeps asking when we moved, and why. He doesn’t remember you in the slightest.” Tom shrugged again, leaning back and crossing his arms. He yawned. “I’m not going to forgive you, not for a long time, but if Edd and Matt do, then who am I to cause drama?”  
  
Tord snorted. “You say that after throwing a fit when I came back the last time.”  
  
Tom gave him a short, very light glare. “Different circumstances. Right now, I think everyone needs a break. You need a break from your _lonely_ life. I need a break from my nightmares. Edd needs a break from having fears about us leaving him. Matt needs a break from trying to remember every five seconds.”  
  
“Nightmares?” Tord questioned quietly, right before the realization sank in. Tom had thought that he’d killed him. Of course a normal person would be haunted by that, most likely for the rest of their life.

The eyeless man stood up, putting some money down on the table to pay for the drinks. “That all can wait until tomorrow, though. For now, it’s...” He pulled out his phone, turned on the screen and squinted at it. “Four thirty in the morning. I think that it’s the perfect time to get drunk.” He grabbed the norwegian’s hoodie, practically dragging him along and out of the diner.

Tord snapped some curses, of course, stumbling in an effort to try not to fall on his ass. He may have been angry, tired, and felt worthless to the point of not caring about anything anymore... but this...

Hanging out with Tom tonight really didn’t sound that bad, and he found his mood picking up considerably on the walk to the bar.

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea what I was doing with the ending. Sorry if it sucks, eheh. Uh. I'm working on the next chapter for Red Hills, but I've hit sort of a wall and I've been trying to break past it. Sorry for that delay, and I hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
